


just another netflix murder documentary

by watergator



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Blood, Guns, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Poisoning, Psychological Horror, Survival Horror, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watergator/pseuds/watergator
Summary: dan stops off at a gas station in the middle of the night
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	just another netflix murder documentary

**Author's Note:**

> please be wary of the warnings and read at your own risk! there is no major character death however there is still 'death' scenes, so please be careful and if this isn't your jam, instead go read something calming <3 take care friends :)

The long, dark, stretch of the road ahead of him was starting to become blurry; street lamps that run parallel blink in a hazy orange light as the car moves past them, a pattern as light bursts and then disappears again with a  _ blink, blink, blink. _   
  
Dan rubs at his eye with a knuckle, trying to clear up the fuzziness in his vision as he tries desperately to concentrate on the road. Another car moves past him before sinking into the darkness that’s ahead of him, unable to see it now, leaving him alone with just the sound of the engine humming and the tires rumbling beneath him.   
  
He wishes desperately that he could just close his eyes, get some sleep and let his body rest; a long shift at the hospital had the bottom of his feet feeling bruised and his entire body feeling like it had been put through a grinder.   
  
But he presses on, his sore feet stuffed into his trainers presses hard on the gas pedal, his scrubs itch against his skin as he thinks about how nice a shower would be once he gets home, changing into soft pyjamas, slipping beneath comfortable bed sheets where he can stay until his alarms goes off again.   
  
He’s pressing his foot down with a little more eagerness now as the sweet fantasy fills his head, thinking about the leftover pizza he has sitting in his microwave, just begging to eat. He’s already feeling his mouth start to water when his car suddenly gives a shrill beep, almost causing him to lose his grip on the wheel.   
  
He steadies himself, his heart momentarily jolting with fear before he looks down at the dashboard where one little symbol is red, flashing angrily at him.   
  
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he tears his eyes away from the almost empty signal and looking up at the road again. He passes a sign that tells him a service station isn’t that far.   
  
He turns the car into the other lane, leaning forward with concentration to be careful not to miss any exits.   
  
Another sign zooms past him, a little further now. And then another one. And another one.   
  
He can see the turn off ahead, and with a flick of his indicator, he’s pulling in, slowing the car down as the road narrows and becomes more winding and less of a long, straight stretch.   
  
There’s a small little gas station, surrounded by what look like dead brushes. An old bin lays on its side, all kinds of rubbish spilling out onto the dusty dirt track.   
  
Dan grimaces as he pulls in; it’s not particularly pleasant looking, but his car is still flashing angrily at him, and Dan knows he’s too far away from home to try and make that journey on an empty tank.   
  
He pulls up to one of the pumps. The fluorescent light ahead gives a spooky kind of flicker but as Dan turns the key in the ignition he tries to ignore the tight feeling in his stomach that’s growing there, putting it down to his own stupid paranoia and fear of things he doesn’t even believe in, like ghosts and ghouls.    
  
He gets out, slamming the door shut behind him, wallet in his pocket as he starts to fill up the tank.   
  
He looks at the meter, trying to take his mind off of the flickering light and it’s low humming buzz as he plays the game he’d usually play with himself when filling up his car.   
  
He watches the number tick over, becoming faster and faster the tighter he pulls the pump. He watches it roll over from £15 to £20. He’s so engrossed in watching it, he barely even cares about the weird, off-putting light. The number climbs past thirty, and just before it can reach any higher than forty, he lets go.    
  
The number comes to an abrupt halt. £40.04.   
  
“Damn,” Dan mumbles to himself, annoyed that he was only 4p out of winning his own stupid game.   
  
Still, he puts the pump back in the holder and stifles a yawn as he fumbles for his card in his wallet.   
  
He’s yawning again as he sticks the card in, missing the first time, and when it asks for his pin number, he jabs the probably dirty and gross keypad with a thumb, reminding himself to wash his hands with the bottle of sanitizer he has in the glove compartment of his car.   
  
The card reader gives a happy little beep and after a few slow seconds, his receipt is being printed, the ink smudged and faded looking.   
  
He sticks the card back into his wallet giving it a little pat as he sticks it back into his pocket.   
  
He’s about to turn back around, ready to head on home with the promise of day old pizza and soft pajamas, when suddenly there’s a crackle, making him look up and jump.   
  
There, across the pavemented pump section, is a worn out looking station.    
  
The inside lights are bright in contrast to the darkness outside, and Dan has to squint his eyes to have a proper look, when all of a sudden there’s another crackle and Dan jumps again.   
  
A voice comes through over the pump he’s at, sounding muffled and far away.   
  
“Sir,” it speaks, a man’s voice, and when Dan looks up again, he can see a man stood behind the cashier, looking right at him. “Sir, we have a problem with your payment.”   
  
Dan looks at him for a moment; tall and lanky, skinny looking with dark hair, and darker circles under his eyes.   
  
He has an unsettling feeling squirm in his gut.   
  
Dan presses the button, holding it down with his finger. “Excuse me?” he asks, trying to keep the sudden shakiness from his voice.   
  
Another crackle. A calm voice speaks. “Your card payment. There seems to be a problem?”   
  
Dan dares to pull his eyes away from the man and down at his receipt. It may be old and faded, but he can clearly see his payment of £40.04 go through. He frowns, looking back up at the guy, jabbing his thumb against the button.   
  
“I have a receipt,” he tells him, feeling a sudden surge of braveness. “I have it right here.”   
  
Dan can’t quite make out his expression from where he’s stood. That’s what makes it all the more stranger.   
  
“But sir,” he says again, something a little more pleading to his tone this time. “I just have to confirm that-”   
  
Dan cuts him off by holding down the button again to talk. “No,” he says with a shake of his head, hoping that the man can see his expression better than he can see his. He doesn’t want to spend another minute here if he can avoid it. A shiver runs down his spine.    
  
“I have to go,” he tells him, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I have a receipt and I don’t have time for this.”   
  
The man opens his mouth as if to speak, but he doesn’t. This time, he looks frantic, panicked almost.   
  
Dan stares at him, unable to move as if his feet had simply sprouted from this very bit of ground beneath him, and the more he looks at the tall, scary guy in the window, the colder he feels his blood run through his body.   
  
He gulps, taking in a shaky breath before putting the receipt away in his wallet. He’s still trying to think about pizza, warm pyjamas, fresh bed sheets, all the things that will happen once he gets home - because he will. He is going home tonight.   
  
He’s holding onto the hope when he makes the awful mistake of looking up again.   
  
The man from before is now away from the cashier, instead pressed up against the window, opening his mouth as if to speak, but no words can be heard.   
  
Dan stumbles back, feeling his heart race inside his chest like a bird trying to escape. His back prickles with sweat and he feels his hands shake.   
  
He reaches inside his pocket only to find his wallet. He curses under his breath; his phone and keys must still be inside the car, but it’s fine. Just a few easy steps backwards and he’ll be able to reach for the door and throw himself in where he can get away quickly now that he has an almost full tank.    
  
He takes a step back, not once keeping eye contact with the guy who then suddenly pounds against the glass, making it rattle horrendously.   
  
Dan almost leaps from his skin, feeling a sharp gasp of air leave his lungs painfully as he stays frozen to the spot.   
  
Dan closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, thinking maybe, just maybe this is all a horrible dream.   
  
Maybe he fell asleep at the wheel, he thinks, lost control of the car and ended up driving into a lamppost.   
  
Maybe he was currently unconscious, having this nightmare whilst a paramedic was on his way to him. And he would believe that, if it weren’t for the painful knocking of his heart against his ribs.   
  
He opens his eyes again and the man is still at the window. He seems to be frantic still, like his whole body is shaking, but Dan can’t find himself to move. He can’t, not even if he wanted to now.   
  
The man isn’t even looking at him now, but instead seems to be scribbling something down on some paper. Dan thinks about making another quick step towards his car, but his gut lurches and he can’t move, physically frozen in fear, trapped between escape and… well, whoever is at the window.   
  
He closes his eyes again, willing himself to just fucking  _ move _ . He begins to grow frustrated with himself the longer he stays still. It feels as if his feet and his brain are no longer connected, like a wire between them has simply snapped, like he never knew how to walk in the first place.

He wants to scream, to open his mouth and let out a noise of pain and anger and fear, but once again, his brain doesn’t seem to be linked to his body, merely a shell of what it once was as he stands there, frozen solid.   
  
He opens his eyes, the flickering light still flashes overhead, and when he does, he wishes he never had.   
  
The scream that had been desperate to claw its way out of him is now merely a small, horrified croak, as he looks at the window and feels as if all the blood in his body has fallen out of him all at once.   
  
The man is still pressed up against the window, this time, holding up a piece of paper that simply reads in scribbled, sloppy handwriting.   
  
**“MAN IN YOUR CAR.”**

The air leaves Dan’s lungs as quick as he can gulp it back down. The frantic look on the man’s face now settles in Dan’s conscious as real, true fear. His hands shake as he presses the paper against the window with such urgency that the paper crumples in his fingers and the glass continues to shake, rattling like the wind.   
  
Dan swallows dryly, still unable to move. With his heart pounding like a drum against his chest, he forces himself to twist around. He manages so, but at a painfully slow rate, as if his brain is simply begging him to not do it. The light over his head goes out, this time a few seconds longer than usual. The world around him is blanketed in darkness once more.   
  
Dan gives a groan as he feels himself swimming in the nighttime air, feeling vulnerable like anything could get him like this, snatched away into nothingness with no warning.   
  
The light hums again, buzzing loudly, and then, it flickers on again.   
  
Dan feels his heart sink like a rock, all the way to his stomach as well as his mouth running as dry as sand as the light illuminates his car like a thunderstorm over the ocean, Dan could just about make out the dark, hooded figure sat in the very back of his car.   
  
He stumbles backwards, giving a short gasp, and with his sudden movement, the figure looks, turning to face him slowly.   
  
Dan screams, voice strangled and cracked as he turns on his heel and runs, legs almost tripping over one another as he bursts into a sprint towards the station where the door is now flung wide open and the man before is beckoning him in with determination as he leans out.   
  
Dan all but stumbles into the guy once he reaches the door, being yanked inside by his scrubs as the door is slammed shut behind him with a heavy click of a lock.   
  
Dan trips, knees bashing against the cold, hard floor, but makes no effort to get up. His body trembles and a sob escapes his chest, wracking him like it had forcefully crawled from deep inside him.   
  
“Oh my fucking god,” he weeps as he turns around and looks out the glass door across the station where his car is still sat under the light, feeling so far away now. “Oh my fucking  _ god _ .”

He hears soft footsteps come up behind him and Dan whips around, looking up at the man before. He looks pale, like he’s sick, and his eyes are wide and bulging - and honestly after all of that Dan couldn’t blame him.   
  
“Are you alright?” The man asks, his voice a lot gentler than it was over the station’s speakers. He holds out a shaky hand and Dan hesitates for a moment before looking up at his sullen looking face and taking his hand in his, being pulled up onto his still wobbly legs.   
  
“No,” Dan says honestly. “What the  _ fuck? _ ”

The man moves away from Dan heading back behind the counter where he’s peering at the computer screen with furrowed brows, biting his lip with worry.   
  
He glances up at Dan who is just stood there, feeling dumb.   
  
“I saw him,” the man tells him in a low voice. “I saw him get into your car when you were filling it.”   
  
Dan swallows thickly. “And you were trying to get me inside?” He asks.   
  
The man nods, looking down for a moment as if in shame.

Dan looks at him - up close he isn’t as scary and as weird looking as his brain had once made out to be, at least, not after all of that…

“Thank you,” Dan croaks as he looks back up. “Thank you…”   
  
The man swallows. “Phil,” he tells him. “My name’s Phil.”   
  
Dan manages something to resemble a smile. “Phil,” he repeats. “I’m Dan.”   
  
Phil nods and looks back at the screen.   
  
Silence stretches between them before Dan moves forward a bit, eager to get away from the door as quickly as possible when he stands at the counter.   
  
“Is he gone?” He asks, a touch of hopefulness in his voice.   
  
But to Dan’s dismay, he shakes his head. Dan doesn’t think his heart could sink any lower, but it sure feels like it is.   
  
“Have… have you called the police?” he asks, voice scratchy and desperate.   
  
Phil gives him a sorry look.    
  
“The phone line,” he says with a shake of his head. “The line must have been cut, or messed with.”   
  
Dan looks away at his fearsome face and instead focuses on the little pack of gum sat on the counter, feeling his vision begin to swim with tears.   
  
Phil doesn’t ask, but Dan tells him anyway.   
  
“My phone is in the car,” he says quietly. He looks back up at him, his face still stuck on that downwards frown, a crease deep between his brows. “What the fuck are we gonna do?”   
  
Phil shakes his head again before running a hand nervously through his hair.

“My shift is over in an hour,” he tells him with a wobbly voice, eyes flickering back over to the screen. “Nobody usually comes through here, but the next person who takes over my shift… if he isn’t gone by then, they’ll be able to call the police.”   
  
Dan looks at him, right into his eyes; they’re blue and wet looking. Dan tries to imagine the horror of watching someone sliding into someone else's car whilst going unnoticed… and then Dan himself had almost ignored Phil’s desperate plea… he wonders what Phil was thinking in that moment… that if he hadn’t worked quick enough, had it gotten him killed?   
  
Would Phil have to have watched helplessly through a window?   
  
There’s a long, agonising silence. Phil lets out a shaky breath and Dan scuffs the toe of his trainer against the floor as he tries to wrap his head around it all.   
  
“Why isn’t he getting out?” Dan asks, peering over the counter to try and look at the footage. Phil swivels the screen around for them to both look at. “My phone is in there and my keys. He could steal my shit and just  _ go _ ,” Dan says finding anger rising up in him. “Why won’t he go already?”

Phil swallows, his sharp Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he looks at Dan with a fearful look deep within his gaze.    
  
“I don’t know,” he says in a quiet voice, eyes flickering back to the still image of Dan’s car. “I have a horrible feeling he wasn’t after your phone or your car.”   
  
Phil’s words are like a slow sinking knife to the chest; it’s sharp and real and Dan finds himself gulping down a well needed breath of air.   
  
He looks away from Phil once again to blink away any unwanted tears.   
  
Still, he thinks to himself as his eyes trail over the snack section, untouched, why would he remain in the car? He saw Dan look at him. He knows he’s been caught out. Surely he’s not that stupid to stick around for the cops… is he?   
  
He looks up and out of the window, the darkness engulfs his little car, but even in the night he can still see the static figure, just sitting in his backseat, almost perfectly blending in with the shadows.   
  
He eventually pulls his eyes away from it, feeling that same tugging in his gut of doom and dread.   
  
He paces for a bit before looking at Phil.   
  
“And you don’t have your own phone?” He asks.   
  
Phil looks guilty. “It’s dead,” he says, pulling it from his pocket as if to prove his point when the screen remains black. “I work all night and nobody ever comes in here so…” he trails off, giving the phone a sorrowful look.   
  
After a few seconds he looks up again, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Sorry,” he croaks.   
  
But Dan shakes his head, sucking in a harsh breath.   
  
“Don’t be sorry,” he tells him, voice softening. “You saved my life.”   
  
Phil gives him a small, half grin, but says nothing else after that.   
  
They stand around for what feels like forever. Dan checks the time on the clock that hangs over Phil’s head, only to find out that it too is broken.    
  
He should be home by now, Dan thinks. Should be asleep or watching shit on TV and thinking about when his next shift was and how tired he is. He shouldn’t be stuck in some shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere with no help, and a fucking lunatic sat in the back of his car.   
  
Dan finds himself pacing again, walking up and down the small stretch of shop, past the Pringle’s and then past the Creme Eggs and back again. He keeps going, feeling each step like it’s his own brain pulsing as it overflows with thoughts and images; scenarios and horrifying outcomes he keeps trying desperately to ignore.   
  
Phil’s sudden voice is what makes him stop.   
  
“You’re gonna burn holes in the floor if you carry on.”   
  
He’s stood behind the counter, looking rather small for a guy about his height. Dan frowns at him.

“I’m stressed and I’m freaking out,” he says, his voice slightly clipped. “I need to pace.”   
  
Phil’s face falls. “Sorry,” he says with a weak shrug of his shoulders. “When I’m stressed I just eat.”   
  
Dan blinks at him before he turns his head to look at the Pringle’s on the shelf. “Yeah?” He asks.   
  
Phil nods solemnly.   
  
Dan picks up the BBQ flavoured Pringles and brings it to the cashier, plonking it down with maybe a little too much pent up force.   
  
“Here,” Dan tells him. “On me.”   
  
He reaches into his pocket for his wallet when Phil pushes them away, making Dan look up to see he’s actually smiling a little bit for once.   
  
“No,” he says softly. “On  _ me. _ ”   
  
Dan smiles back as he opens them up, passing it to Phil who takes a handful and stuffs them into his mouth.   
  
“Will you get in trouble for this?” Dan asks, mouth full of food.   
  
Phil shakes his head, wiping a crumb off his bottom lip with a dart of his tongue. “No,” he says truthfully. “Not after all of this I don’t think. We deserve free gas station food at least.”   
  
Worry swarms in his stomach once again at Phil’s words, spoken like perhaps the incident was behind them now, though Dan knew it wasn’t entirely, like a virus ready to come alive and attack at any moment, but Dan decides to wash it away with more snacks, shoveling them into his mouth, handfuls at a time.   
  
And Phil’s right. They really do help with stress.

Time passes them by impossibly slow as they make their way through the entire tub of Pringles as well as finishing off the little box of Creme Eggs together, littering the counter with balls of silver foil, one of which Dan holds in his fingers, pressed between his thumb and forefinger as he rolls it between the fingertips, watching as the light catches against the material, giving it a small shine.

They’ve migrated to the back of the counter together, sat on the floor with their legs pressed together, unspeaking as every now and then they both glance up to look at the seemingly static monitor.

The giant floor to ceiling glass windows would give them a better look at the outside to keep an eye on things, but it makes Dan’s stomach squirm, and it somehow feels safer by merely watching it through a screen, as if it were some terrible found footage horror film, instead of in real time.

He thinks about all the murder documentaries he’d watched in his life, the ones on Netflix or the obscure late night ones he’d rot his brain with if he couldn’t sleep, and he thinks about there’s always some grainy, scary looking camera footage used as evidence, and how he’d usually be questioning to the tv like it could simply here him and have it’s own opinion:

_ ‘Why?’ _

Why do some people want to kill others? Why do they pick specific people, with specific motives and specific ideas? 

Why did this man decide to climb in Dan’s car? Would he have made him drive someplace other than home? Would he have kept him alive for months on end?

Would he have tortured him? Would he have made him drive someplace quiet where nobody could hear his final plea for mercy; his final breath drawn at whatever horrible fate left to him?   
Or would he have just emerged from the backseat quietly, put his hands to his throat and killed him, without Dan knowing anything at all?

It’s that that makes his skin crawl and his gut twist up inside of him: the not knowing.

How many people had been killed, destroyed, hurt and worse, all while laying on their backs, pleading and begging, with no real idea what was going on or why. How many people had died with those kinds of questions leaving their lips, and had taken their last breaths before ever hearing the answer?

Dan closes his eyes, squeezing them tight as he tries to think of anything else besides murder and death.

He’s determined not to let that kind of negativity swarm him, knowing that it would wrap around his brain like poisoned barbed wire, leaving him as nothing but hopelessness and despair.

And in a way, in Dan’s mind, sometimes that was worse than death itself.

His body feels tired, heavy almost, and his eyes burn, feeling how he did when he was driving, and he knows that perhaps the adrenaline was fading in his system now, causing the tiredness to seep back into him.

Phil nudged his leg with his, his knee knocking against his knee and Dan blinks at him, not realising until now how dangerously close he was to actually passing out.

“Don’t go falling asleep on me,” Phil whispers, his words seem a little slurred, his eyes blink unfocused and Dan has to wonder how long they’ve been here for.

“Sorry,” Dan mumbles, a yawn escapes him before blinking back the wetness in his eyes. “M’here.”

He knocks his knee back against Phil’s and earns a small huffed laugh from him.

“Good,” he croaks, and when Dan looks at him, he can see his eyes are nearly half shut too. “Don’t wanna be left alone to defend you.”

Dan gives a dry chuckle. “Right,” he says. “Why would it be you defending me anyways?”

Phil opens his eyes a little more, “Because I already saved you once.”

Dan half smiles at him, pressing their legs together tighter. “Well, it just means I’ll have to save you back then, won't it?”

Phil gives a dry laugh before tilting his head back against the wall, letting his eyes shut.

“No fair,” he tells him in a quiet voice. “You’re already the hero.”

Dan frowns at him with curiosity. “How am I the hero?” he asks and Phil picks up his head to look at him, eyes flickering down his body and back up to his face again.

“You’re a doctor,” he tells him matter-of-factly. “And I’m just the stupid cashier.”

His smile falters after that, and Dan feels his chest grow a little tighter before clearing his throat to speak.

“I’m not a doctor,” he tells him in a quiet voice. “I’m a nurse. And you’re not a stupid cashier,” he adds on, making Phil look up at him.

“Yeah?” Phil speaks, voice wobbling a little bit, eyes starting to become glossy. “If I die tonight, I would never have amounted to nothing,” he sniffs. “A nobody.”

He looks down at his feet, ducking his head away, presumably to stop Dan from seeing his tears. 

But Dan watches as they fall from his face, splashing against the floor into tiny rippled puddles.

He doesn’t budge his knee with his knee this time, but instead places a shaky hand on there. Phil sniffs loudly and looks at him with big, watery eyes.

“You’re not a nobody,” Dan croaks, looking right into his eyes like he’s looking into his very soul. ‘You’re Phil. And you saved me tonight, from what, I don’t know,” he says, trying desperately to steady his voice. “You saved me because you were smart. And you are smart, and because of that, we’re gonna get out of this alive, yeah?”

Phil blinks at him, more tears slipping down his face, when he then places his hand over Dan’s, his palm cold to the touch in contrast to Dan’s sweaty one.

He nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. “We are.”   


Dan smiles at him and doesn’t make the effort to move his hand away at all. And neither does Phil.

He looks at the monitor again and sucks in a sharp breath.

“We’ll be okay,” he mutters under his breath, squinting as he watches the small blurry figure in the back of his car, motionless like it wasn’t even real.

Then, he swears it moves, looking up at the camera, as if it were looking right at him.

Phil’s hand slips away from his and Dan makes no effort to grab it back, his stomach in knots when Phil suddenly gives a weak cough, doubling over with a groan.

“Don’t feel like I’m okay,” he grunts, voice muffled from where his face was buried into his thighs. 

Dan looks at him, “Anxious?” he asks, but Phil looks up weakly and shakes his head.

“No,” he tells him gravely, eyes dark. “I know what anxious feels like, and this isn’t it.”

He groans again, folding himself over as Dan watches on dumbly, and as Phil breathes heavily, Dan swears he feels his own kind of pain deep within his gut. He grunts, shifting on his ass as he stretches his neck, tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

He’s not sure how long he’d been asleep for, but he wakes to the sound of somebody retching.

He’s groggy and slow, but he turns his head to the side to see where Phil is now on all fours, his back to him, and like this with his back hunched, he looks like a wild animal.

Dan crawls to him approaching him slowly when he reaches a hand out and touches it against his back.   


His shirt is almost soaked through with sweat.

At least, Dan thinks it is, because when he pulls back, he realises his own hands are clammy, warmer than usual. He swallows thickly and blinks, his vision sways for a moment before he steadies himself.

“Phil?” He calls out in a weak voice. “Phil, are you okay?”   


Phil doesn’t respond, and instead heaves again, the sound of a wet, heavy splatter against the floor tiles has his own stomach turning as his body jerks, letting out a sharp gag.

Nothing escapes his stomach, leaving him only with a heavy burning sensation in his gut and throat, and as he pulls himself up, he looks over at Phil, who’s swaying on the spot.   


“Dan,” he says thickly, a trail of drool and vomit sliding down his chin. “I don’t feel good.”

Neither does Dan, his head is pounding and his heart is racing, his entire body prickling with burning hot sweat. He tries to stand up, his knees digging painfully into the hard floor, but everytime he tries, it’s as if the world shifts beneath him, like a rug being jostled under his feet.

He looks at Phil, and realises he too is the same, swaying and staggering, a butchered attempt to stand straight before collapsing to the floor, sucking in desperate breaths before letting out a short sob.   


“God,” he croaks. “What’s happening?”

For a small moment, Dan doesn’t think; his brain feels like it’s pulsing in his brain, nausea swarms in his stomach like an ocean storm. His vision goes blurry and unfocused, and for a second, he’s seeing double. His insides feel like they’re being scraped with a spoon.

It’s then that it all falls into place for him, a lightbulb moment that has his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he fights off every painful feeling in his body to try and speak.

“Phil,” he eventually groans, sliding across the floor to reach him, a hand desperately tries to find him. “Phil, I think we’re being poisoned.”

Phil doesn’t reply; his face is pressed up against the floor, his eyes are shut, mouth hangs open by just an inch, but when Dan touches his back, he can still feel the very faint rise and fall of each laboured breath inside him.

It’s like fighting against himself as he tries to wrack his brain and think.

He stands up but falls down again, crashing into a box of Monster Munch, the small crisp packets go skittling across the floor and Dan ends up landing in them with a thud.

His heart is beating fast despite the feeling of it slowing down. Maybe this is what dying feels like, he thinks. Maybe it never makes sense. 

He can’t see Phil behind the counter anymore, and he wonders if he’s already dead now. He wonders if maybe Phil was right - that he would die tonight with that sinking feeling of incompleteness in life, and the same thought tangles itself up in Dan’s brain.

He feels strangled as he lays there on the cold, hard tiles of that gas station floor.

He looks up towards the door, just an arms reach away from where he’d landed.

He can see his car, he can see the flickering light just above it. He closes his eyes, thinking painful about how close escape was. No longer is, but was. He takes a few gulps of air, drinking it down like it’s the most delicious thing ever.

But deep down he knows it’s killing him, the oxygen and carbon monoxide cocktail of death that fills his lungs is what is killing him and if not already, killing Phil.

He lets out a sob of his own, eyes dry as he squeezes them tighter, wanting the world to just disappear behind his light spotted eyelids, falling away someplace else.

He opens his eyes again, the feeling of time has passed him, unsure of how long he’d been laying here. His body is still tacky with sweat, his head still thumps at his temples, and he squints his eyes when he notices two bright lights coming closer to him.

He makes no effort to move, but instead just lays there, letting out the smallest of groans. He looks again, and realises it’s a car that’s pulled up, the faintest of humming from the engine, some faded music floats from it before it all stops.

Dan heaves another breath, unable to move as his body feels like it’s full of concrete, heavy and unwilling.

He opens his eyes when he hears the sound of footsteps, and through hazy vision he can see someone walking towards the door, a leisurely manner as if they’d never even spotted Dan sprawled out in the entrance way.

He’s able to tilt his head upwards when he spots that it’s a girl walking to the door, earphones wedged in her ears, a little badge pinned to her shirt - the same kind as Phil’s, and there’s a tiny glimmer of hope spark in his chest.

That is until there’s more, faster, hurried footsteps approaching, and when Dan looks, he spots the man slipping out from the car, less like a human and more like a ghost or a shadow, and before Dan can even react, there’s a loud booming sound, and a heavy thud.

The air seems to be silent for a moment, only echoing with the sharp ring of the gunshot. 

Blood paints the window, still for a moment, as if in shock itself, and then it begins the run, smeared down as the body lays slumped against the door, motionless.

Dan’s cries are silent, chest heavy and painful, he tries to stand, but he can’t - he’s too weak, and when he attempts to move, his stomach gives another violent lurch.

Dan looks away from the body and at the man, stood just a few feet away from them. He’s faceless in the dark, and Dan feels a different feeling in his stomach to the poisoned pain he’s becoming used to.

Instead, he feels dread.

His head feels heavy, and he closes his eyes to look away at the still, slummed body. Blood continues to trickle down the glass, falling and dripping like it was nothing more than rainwater.

Dan closes his eyes, head resting against the floor, and tries to convince himself that maybe that was all it was.

*

When Dan comes around, he’s still on the floor. He moves his head, eyes still shut, not wanting to see whatever may be waiting for him.

His lips brush against something wet, and when he opens his eyes, blinking out the light that penetrates his vision, he can see there’s a line of spit pooling around his lips on the tile beneath him.

Groaning, he tries to roll away, but his body still feels like lead; heavy and cumbersome, he remains still.

He thinks about crying out maybe - he was so sure he was dead, that maybe one final agonising scream would end this: either with his death or his rescue.

But his throat is tight and his tongue is weighty in his mouth. With the feeling of empty, burning lungs, there’s nothing he can do other than just lay there, and let his body be filled with pain and eventually, death. 

He closes his eyes again, counting the seconds in his head as best as he can, wondering when it will be he will start to lose his grip on consciousness - each second feels too real and too good to be true, but the number keeps trickling on, much like the gas pump outside, he wonders if there’s a specific number he’ll hit before it’s all over.

He mumbles, lips brushing over the spit slicked floor,

_ “Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…” _

Things start to get blurry, and as Dan tries to hold onto life as harshly as he can, dragging his feet in the sand, embedding his claws before taking off, he knows that with each breath, he gets closer to his last.

He thinks about the girl at the window, and as he opens his eyes, he can see her body there still, sagging, hair covering her face which would be still and grey, lifeless and already gaunt looking the longer her soul was away from her body.

He cringes, thinking about Phil, left to die behind the counter, probably slumped over too, choking on his own spit and vomit with beads of sweat still fresh on his temple. He thinks back to the beginning of it all, when Phil was just a guy, standing in the window of the gas station shop, urging him inside whilst the threat lay out behind him.

Now he was faced with it, looking it dead in the eyes like stalked prey turned hunter, and he knew that this was it, the final moment of glory.

Succumb to his fate, already drawn out and meticulously planned out for him, or maybe face off whatever waiting for him in the dark.

He pushes himself up off the floor, wrists feeling so weak like paper, ready to snap in half any moment. But he manages it, pulling himself up with a deep grunt, the pressure on his chest seems to fade away in an icy shiver, and he’s standing up. 

Everything continues to sway, the earth swinging back and forth, side to side underneath him as he staggers and stumbles on the spot.

He blinks, the outside world seems more fuzzier and hazier than before, like the shadows all seem to stretch just a little bit more and a little bit darker beyond the horizon of the gas station.

He spins around, almost losing his balance, but manages to stay upright as he makes his way to the counter.

He see’s Phil, sprawled out on the floor from when he’d left him last, mouth open, eyes peacefully closed, a hand is stuck in time as it grips the front of his chest, like he’d been begging for a breath of air.

Dan collapses to the floor beside him, knees aching as pain shoots up through his legs at the sudden drop, but he doesn’t care as he reaches a hand out to touch at his still arm.

It’s cold to the touch, like ice, and Dan feels his entire insides jump away as he keeps his hand on his skin, unmoving as a thumb brushes past a cluster of freckles.

“Phil,” he whispers, voice cracking as he looks down at the still body. “Phil, wake up.”

There’s nothing. No air leaves his lips, no chest falls, no twitch of muscle behind pale skin.

Nothing.

Dan sucks in a breath as he thinks about their last conversation… Dan didn’t get to save Phil.

“Phil,” he cries, feeling a wetness on his cheeks that he soon registers as tears. “Phil, please.”

Phil lays there, uncaring of Dan’s plead, unknowing of the pain that settles in his chest, sharp and deep and wounding as he looks at his static body, left dead and cold.

“Phil,” Dan croaks as the tears slip off his nose, landing on the floor close to where Phil’s tears once fell. “Please, just wake up.”

Is there a point in surviving now? Dan wonders harshly. 

With the girl left bloody outside and Phil in here, what was the point in facing death when it had already so clearly won?

He folds himself over Phil’s body, head resting against his pale, cool arm as he lets himself cry over the almost-stranger.

The almost-stranger that saved him, but never got to save back.

He holds him tight, not even caring if the man is waiting outside, or approaching the door with quick enough steps that wouldn’t give Dan time to even think of an idea to save himself… because he’s not sure it's worth it now.

If he lives and everyone else dies, would he be the sole survivor sat in the interview chair whilst a big camera sat in his face, Netflix printed on the side and an eager director wanting every grisly detail?

Would that be it? Would his life just become ‘the survival?’ or would he rather be the third victim in a murder documentary he wouldn’t have to be apart of, other then the images of his life before this moment?

He feels angry, mad and upset. He feels enraged. He feels dismal and hurt and played.

He pulls himself away from Phil, looking down at his still body.

How dare he? How dare he get away with it? Phil doesn’t have to live with the guilt of survival. He gets to be dead.

He envies it. He fucking _loathes_ it. 

He looks at him through blurred vision as more tears pool behind his eyes and with a swing of his fist, he brings it down upon his chest with pure, unfiltered anger.

Phil wasn’t going to leave him. It was far too unfair for that.

He swings again, fists coming down hard against his chest. Phil gives a jolt, but nothing more.

Dan hits him, again and again and again. Tears fly from his face, teeth gritted so hard it hurts, and he’s about to give up when suddenly.

Phil’s eyes snap open and he’s gasping for air.

Dan falls backwards in shock as Phil sits up, scrambling to move as he rolls off his back and vomit, choking and spluttering as he gets it all up.

“Fuck,” Phil croaks, voice raspy and scratchy sounding, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck.”   
  
Dan is still crying, silent tears slip down his face as he watches in shock as Phil rights himself by sitting back up, slumping against the wall with a heavy sigh.

He’s never seen anyone dead for sure, but he’s also never seen anyone come back to life either.

Phil looks at Dan as he takes in big, heavy, slow breaths, rubbing over his shirt where Dan had punched him in the chest, locking eyes for a solid few seconds before he nods.

“Thanks,” he whispers. “We’re even now.”

Dan gulps, “We have to leave,” he tells him. “We’ve been poisoned.”

Phil shudders, his face still pale and sickly looking, and Dan doesn’t suppose he looks any better himself.   
  
They say nothing, but pull each other up as they sway and wobble on their feet. It won't be long until they get worse again, Dan thinks as Phil has to stop to double over and catch his breath.    
  
His chest is rattly and painful sounding, and Dan thinks back to all the times he’s heard it in people when they were dying.   
  
He grips Phil’s arm tightly as they make their way to the door.   
  
“Close your eyes,” Dan tells him sharply, suddenly remembering the body at the front. Phil goes to ask why, but Dan just tells him again.   
  
“And don’t open them until I tell you,” he adds.

Phil does as he’s told, and Dan leads them towards the door.

Each step is slow and painful and the same drumming sensation begins at his temples, bursting like his head will crack in two.

Phil stumbles a few times but Dan has hold on him still, guiding him with careful instruction.

Dan gets to the door, looks away from the body and pushes it open to the night time air, feeling the fresh breeze against his skin.   
  
But it's too late. His lungs grow tight with each step, and the rattling in Phil’s chest gets heavier and deeper.

They’re still holding onto one another when Dan falls to the ground, Phil going down with him.   
  
With asphalt digging into his cheek Dan looks at Phil, who has his eyes half closed when he asks in a slurred voice.

“Did we make it?”   
  
Dan lifts his head up, neck feeling heavy and sore. He can see his car a few feet away. 

It’s empty and he smiles looking at Phil again, holding his hand in his as they lay there beneath the flickering lights.   
  
“Yeah,” he croaks, a tear slips off his face and onto the ground. “We did.”

*

When Dan wakes up again, he’s on his back and there’s someone mouthing words he can’t quite hear.   
  
Her face is creased in concern, her ponytail swings off her shoulder as she says something that again, Dan can’t understand.

He blinks at her, feeling time move in slow motion. There’s no longer any flickering lights, but instead red and blue. He turns his head, and next to his small, stupid little car, is an ambulane as well as a police car.

He blinks and looks back at the woman again, who suddenly starts to make noises.

“Sir? Sir, we’re going to get you up now, okay?” She speaks, and with that, Dan’s being pulled off the floor, and there’s another pair of hands around his arms as he’s guided to the back of the ambulance, feet flopping beneath him as he’s hauled up and practically lifted towards the vehicle.   
  
It’s then that he sees Phil; he’s sat on the bed, being tended to by another paramedic with a drip in his arm and a mask around his face. He can’t say much, but he’s told to sit down, and soon the same is done to him.    
  
A needle scratches his skin and the mask is tight around his face, but as he looks at Phil and Phil looks at him, he knows that it's the least worst thing that’s happened all night.

They stay in the back of the ambulance for a bit, a few paramedics come in and out to take vitals and read stats, telling them that soon they’ll be taken to hospital for a checkup, but not before the police talk to them.   
  
They’re left alone for a little bit when Phil pulls his mask off, letting it dangle under his chin.   
  
“She’s dead,” he says flatly, eyes dark, face pulled downwards.    
  
Dan gulps. He doesn’t even want to look in that direction, knowing the all too familiar scene of a white sheet caked in red.

“I’m sorry,” Dan tells him, pulling his own mask off lazily. “I’m really sorry.”

Phil’s eyes fill with tears and he manages a thin smile as he reaches over the short distance between them and shakes his head.   
  
“Don’t be. We made it.”   
  
Dan squeezes his hand and smiles back.

It’s then when a police officer arrives, standing in the back of the ambulance, his face is thin and eyes are dark, bruised looking almost from the purple rings beneath them.   
  
Dan feels a little unsettled from the look of him, but Phil grips his hand tightly, not letting go.

“We’ll have to take a statement from you both,” he tells them in a smooth voice. “Once you’re back from the hospital and all.”   
  
Phil nods, then says,   
  
“It’s all on the tapes,” he says, voice cracking. “The security tapes.”

It’s then that a younger police officer arrives, giving a worrisome look between the three of them.   
  
“We checked the tapes,” he tells Phil, face giving away what Dan already knows.   
  
“They’re empty.”   
  
Dan swallows thickly, wishing he was just home already, away from this horrible, horrible place.   
  
Before the officers can say anything else, the paramedics return, thanking the officers and getting Dan and Phil’s masks back on, laying down on their beds as the ambulance takes off with the promise that they’ll be giving statements tomorrow when the officers arrive at the hospital.   
  
They rock as the vehicle moves and sways, away from the gas station, away from Dan’s car… away from everything that happened tonight.   
  
Or at least, almost, everything.   
  
When Dan closes his eyes, moving as the ambulance moves, he can see the man in his car, he can see the bloody body, he can see Phil’s lifeless, limp body.   
  
He can see it all like a movie playing inside his head.

He opens his eyes and looks over at Phil who’s looking at him. “Stay with me?” He asks, reaching a hand out which Phil takes.   
  
“Yeah,” he smiles softly. “I’ll stay with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on tumblr !! @watergator


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